


Boning

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: Buttons and Bows [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Incestuous longing, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Fantasy, psychiatric hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Frills.





	1. Guilty Guilty Guilty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> The title of the first chapter is the name of an album by Diamanda Galas.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.  
> Happy early Christmas, Millicent Cordelia.

The idea is that by taking you out of the world, they take you away from temptation. That's a laugh. Here, in Arkham, there's nothing but temptation. By removing any distractions, leaving you alone with people just like you, leaving you alone, just leaving you, they strip you down to your bones. There's nothing left but your desires, your aches, and without a way to satisfy them, they totally suffuse all that's left of you. You're down to bones, and they are your bones.  
Speaking of stripped- the uniform makes Barnes look like a middle-aged ogre. He hates every distorting stripe on that pile of canvas. It's like the skin of a dead thing; the flesh rotted and the bones tumbled away, leaving only the baggy hide. Its only redeeming feature is the way it rubs against him; the institutional underwear as thin as a breeze, doing nothing to ease that constant friction. He walks around all day with half a hard-on- also obscured by those stripes. He misses his suits, his shirts, his ties. It's almost a relief that there are no real mirrors, just reflective foil that cannot be shattered, and distorts even more.  
They wouldn't let him bring any of his straight clothes, so his finer things were out of the question. It's for the best: the thought of silk and lace getting caught and ratted up in this place fills him with a particular kind of disgust. So, for now, he dreams. He dreams of lilac satin, and boning that gently corrects his posture. He dreams of fine nylon, and Cuban heels. He dreams of garter belts edged in enough lace to choke a man, and high-waisted silk briefs, and floating peignoirs. And he dreams--  
Of Jim Gordon. This surprises Barnes. It's dirty. They were almost a family, once, in the days now washed over with gold in Barnes' memory. Jim was like his son. An errant son. Those who stray are always the most beloved. Why is it that way?  
His thoughts whirl like curls of smoke, brushing but not touching. Coils of perfume on the air. His hands on Jim's shoulders, fingers pressing into his flesh like the slash of elastic. Hands on Jim's back. His neck. In his hair. Kissing Jim, long and messy. Biting his lips hard enough to feel the flesh give. The scent of blood filling his nasal cavity; the taste sparkling on his tongue. Jim on his knees, mouth wetting the silken crotch of the russet lace panties Barnes had for everyday wear. Simple, but unusual enough to thrill. Jim licking short strokes, besotted in his movements, losing reason, and enjoying it. Hating himself for enjoying it. So much. Then, giving up and sucking, as though to wear through the material and touch flesh. He might suck for a thousand years. It feels that way, this low and sodden unwinding in Barnes' belly like dread. And when Barnes has had enough of trifles, he shakes Jim away, takes off the panties. Stands there in the black lace bra that was always too tight, enjoying the way that the straps bite his shoulders, and an ivory cincher, and a black garter belt and stockings, and Jim is overcome. Jim takes him deep, hands on his ass, pulling him in; finger treading his perineum as Jim sucks his cock. He's pleased to be moved roughly, to have his hair pulled as Barnes fucks his mouth. Barnes imagines a raw place on Jim's lip splitting like a tired seam. Little streaks of blood like tally marks on Barnes' cock. They look like lipstick traces. An accidental brush of the mouth on a handkerchief during a tearful farewell. And when Barnes comes in Jim's mouth, fittingly enough, there is salt in Jim's wounds.  
After that, Barnes might do anything to Jim. He could cut Jim's throat, arterial spray hitting his sternum, dripping down his belly onto his cock. He could crucify him, stretch out his arms and pin him to the wall. Take off his clothes, cut open his naked belly, reach up under the ribs, and cup a hand around his heart. Turn him around, wrench his legs apart, fist-fuck him.  
Kiss his wet mouth. Smooth back his hair, now shellacked with sweat. Kiss him again, his body flush against Barnes'. Bury his face in Jim's neck. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him. Hold him like this, and he might never run away again. He might not even want to.  
They take everything, but somehow, leave you exactly what you need to hurt yourself.


	2. The Phlebotomist's Love Chant

You're not crazy. You know what's you, and what's something else. How could you not? Maybe she infected you, but you can still feel yourself in you. You haven't gone someplace else. You're not doing anything you don't want to do. You had your reasons. They're still sound.  
Everyone in this place has their reasons. Most of those reasons aren't even crazy; just stupid. Men without a thread of self control, thinking that desire's greater than the law. If your desire is the law, though, what's bigger than that? Nothing, of course.  
You don't like him looking at you. It seems as though he's never not looking at you. His gaze is at once softly curious, annoyingly amused, revoltingly tender. The second that one of the schmucks they have for guards forgets where he is and leaves something sharp in your path, it's going straight into Tetch.   
His own sister.  
In the day room, watched by him, you feel her. Like a heavier liquid injected into water, running through it and sinking down.  
But they say that blood calls to blood. What does it actually mean? It means that she's in there with you. She recognizes him--  
But she's dead. What do the dead want from the living?  
They want their life back, of course.  
In Greek mythology, ghosts are without reason, and can only howl incoherently. Blood attracts them. They must be reeled in all the faster if it's their own blood.  
She recognizes him, and she's dead, so she's stupid, and you feel her drawing closer to him.  
Once you're there, you remember that you're not her, but you, and you remember what he is, and what you want to do to him. “Stop fucking looking at me,” you spit. “I'm not her,” you say. “I'm me,” you add pointlessly.  
“A rose by any other name makes sweeter incense for ardor's flame,” Tetch says, and smiles, pleased with himself.  
You grab him by the front of his shirt and pull him out of his seat. He's smiling at you the whole time. “It brings a rose to your cheek,” he says.  
“Hey!” shouts one of the guards. But he's not there quickly enough to stop you from throwing Tetch down on the table. He's not smiling, now. His face is creased with pain, but he's otherwise serene.  
What?  
You let the guards restrain you. You watch one of them help Tetch up, ask if he needs to go to the infirmary. Tetch responds by biting the man's arm.  
What?  
The punchline is that you're sent to isolation, both you and the man you attacked. Though, it's not really isolation if there are two of you in that room. There are no windows, and the door opens from the outside. They must be counting on one of you to kill the other, just to give them one less inmate to deal with.  
Sitting on one of the bunks, he says, “It looks as though we're quite alone.”  
“I'm going to kill you.”  
“Then do so, and be done with it,” he says, standing, his arms at his sides, palms up, “Though, if you were serious about it, you would have already done it. From what I gather, you made quite a mess out there. You must have, or you wouldn't be in here, with all of these miscreants. Oh, she must be in your ear all day and night,” he says, coming closer, “you, locked up in this dreadful place, with these violent individuals. What does my darling sister whisper? Does she tell you to kill, to kill them all, because they're wicked, and the wicked must be punished? And what does she tell you about me?”  
“Murderer,” you say, feeling the blood in your head foam and spit like the sea, “Pervert.”  
“No,” he shakes his head sadly, “Surely, you know the truth. You know what she does to you. I couldn't help it, anymore than you could. She made me this way.”  
You slap him, like he's a child. You think of Jim. Tetch is also young enough to be your son.  
Head still turned to the side, stiff in shock, he holds his hand over his cheek. “You always hurt the ones you love,” he says in a watery murmur, slowly standing up straight. He moves his hand, and you see how red you made him. “Kiss it better? No? Well, any touch from her is good enough for me.”  
“I'm not her.”  
“You are, in the way that matters. Everything left of her that lives and breathes is inside of you. You must know how powerful that is. The power you have. What's it like?”  
“What's what like?” You didn't realize he'd gotten so close.  
“To have me totally, completely at your mercy.” He takes your hand in his. You let him. His eyes fixed on yours, he brings your hand up to his mouth; he turns it over, and kisses your wrist. You feel his tongue dart out and swipe over your pulse. You spread your fingers across his cheek, and feel his breath sigh out of him. You brush your thumb against his lower lip, then slip it into his mouth. If you thought he'd be disgusted, you were mistaken. Closing his eyes, he sucks languorously, letting you move it in and out.  
Maybe it's all a wind-up. Maybe he just wants to get off. The game is just something to do. He might want Alice, but she's not here. It's just you. And you've proven that you're willing to play. You think of Jim.  
“Guilty,” you mutter.  
Your thumb slides out of his mouth. “Well, we're all guilty, here.” He rounds his shoulders, looks down at you, into your eyes. “Lie with me,” he says.  
You wonder if you're being compelled. It would certainly be easier that way. You wonder if you've become just that fucked-up. That you're able to hesitate and ask these questions would seem to indicate that you're free. Are you really free, though, if all on your own, you're starting to see the appeal?  
“Please,” he says. His voice is a trickle of smoke, gray and fading.  
“Yeah,” you say, “Okay.” You repeat, “Yeah.” You might be agreeing to pick up his dry cleaning.  
He's holding your hands in his as you sit down in tandem. “Let me taste her,” he says hopefully.  
“I'm not letting you drink my blood,” you scoff.  
“No, no,” he says, as though genuinely concerned that he's offended you, “Can I kiss you? Her? You?” He furrows his brow unhappily, the first sign you've seen that he's not really sure what's happening, either. Maybe he's as bound as you are, by her blood, or by his own voice. “Please.”  
He suddenly looks very young. Much younger than Jim. “Fine,” you say, and suffer him to place his hand on your cheek, press his lips tentatively to yours. You put your hand on the back of his neck, pushing his hair to the side, and bring him in closer. Press your thumb into the bruises on his cheek, mellowing from mauve to saffron. He starts, and you pull him against you. You let him slip his tongue into your mouth. You push him back, his head falling into the corner of the bunk, displacing the pathetic little pad of the pillow, which bops against you, a white peak like a Halloween ghost. You bat it aside. He holds you against him, kissing you with tenderness more than carnality, desperate breaths accordioning out of him as he sucks your tongue.  
You strip him, then yourself. The air's stale. Only an occasional puff of new air coughs out of the vent in the ceiling, which has a chicken wire cage fixed over it. Someone must have tried to break out that way. It's close, but it's cool, like a tomb, and he shivers in your arms. You let him kiss you for a while before you turn him over, onto his belly. He makes a sound of complaint.  
“Tell me to stop,” you say.  
“No,” he says, sounding defeated, “don't stop.”  
He's being agreeable, so you kiss the back of his neck, his shoulders, down his spine. When you spread his legs, you're gentle. You brush your thumb against his asshole, and his hips stutter forward.  
“You want her inside of you?” you ask him. No emotional coats your voice.  
“Yes,” he breathes.  
You spit in your hand, wet your cock. Under you, he writhes. He could be trying to get away. You're not going to let him. You have to hold him down just to get anywhere. He's tense, and he keeps moving. When you're inside of him, you're going to appreciate it, but now, it's just an annoyance. It makes you long for the way flesh yields to a bullet or a knife. There are more effective ways than this to get inside of someone.  
You hold his hips, push with yours, feel him shake, hear yourself telling him to relax. He might bleed. He's going to bleed, you know, and you think of Jim, and what you wanted to do with him, and that makes you push in hard, and Tetch sobs or chokes, or something.  
You're inside of him, and he's breathing heavily, twisting his hips, twisting his whole body.  
“I can feel her,” he whispers.  
He might be feeling something, but it's not her.  
He relaxes, lets you enjoy him. You give it to him slowly, like he might like it, too. Maybe he does. He's not struggling anymore, but moving with you. You touch him, feel his body rise against your hand. His skin is soft, so you want to keep doing it. You think of satin, and silk; of velvet bustiers and lace stockings. You think of Jim kneeling before you, his mouth on your cock through your panties. For that, and for the tight heat of Tetch, clenched around you, making it impossible, now, to move with any sort of consideration- you start fucking him so hard that he shakes beneath your hands.  
“Do you want me to come inside of you?”  
“What?” he says, dazed, raising his head, turning it slightly to the side.  
“Do you want me to come inside of you?”  
“Yes.”  
You're rough, because it'll be over more quickly that way. His hips jerk with yours. You groan, and he echoes you. After it's over, you ride him a little bit longer, to feel orgasm's shallow obverse. Pulling out takes almost as much effort as it did to penetrate him. You get off of him, look at him.  
The fluids that leave his body are tinged pink. You wipe your cock on the edge of the bed sheet. Wincing, he slowly turns onto his back.  
“Please,” he says. You don't even know what he's asking for anymore. You're not sure that he does, either. You lie in his arms, and let him kiss you. You let him touch your body, and listen to your heart beating, a silly smile on his face. You slowly stroke him to orgasm, and let him call you Alice when he comes.  
Stripped, now, of the urgency of arousal, you realize the absurdity of the situation. The need to wring the life from Tetch has been replaced by the desire, first distant but ever-approaching, to feel his body under you again. To put your cock in him, but to kiss him, as well. To taste his skin, and feel him tremble, and make him come. It is, it seems, impossible to be truly free. There's a saying that the only real freedom is freedom from sin, and all here- in Arkham, and on earth- are guilty.  
If the dead want their lives back, you think, they might reconsider if they could remember what it means to be alive.


End file.
